


A Hidebound Journal

by EK (ilyat)



Category: Bastion
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-22
Updated: 2013-12-22
Packaged: 2018-01-05 11:43:50
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,608
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1093512
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ilyat/pseuds/EK
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Calamity's over, and the survivors are bound and determined to keep moving forward. But in order to fully appreciate the present and plan for the future, it's important to remember the past. It's important to remember just how much - and who - you left behind.</p><p>Contains end-game spoilers.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Hidebound Journal

**Author's Note:**

  * For [mjules](https://archiveofourown.org/users/mjules/gifts).



> I had so much fun doing this - and it gave me the perfect excuse to replay one of my favorite games. Thank you for giving me such a wonderful prompt to work with!

_I still don’t right know where we are… or where we’re goin’... but that’s alright. For once, it’s alright. And… to tell you the truth, it’s kind of nice to not have to worry about that sort of thing. The wind blows and there we go, like a feather floatin’ along on that gentle breeze without a care in the world._

_But one thing I do know is where we’ve been. Me, the Kid, Zia, Zulf… all of us, we remember. We remember what was good and what was bad. And even though there was a lot that was bad… there was a lot of good, too. Sometimes there was a whole lot of good._

_It was Zia’s idea, actually. I thought she was done with Caelondia, done with the past, done with everyone who’d done her wrong. But it was because of her that we each took turns talkin’ about what we remembered that was good and pure back home… who we remembered… who we loved, who we lost, who in the end we left behind. Forever._

_Then one day Zia dragged out her father’s old journal. I thought she’d thrown that thing away, but it turns out she just burned everything that he’d written in it. She’d burned every single word, every single diagram, everything except one page right at the end, and that she kept. Zulf said it was a letter to her from her father. He didn’t say what it said. Not to me, anyway. There was still a lot of blank pages leftover, though, and Zia… Zia decided that we should write down our stories. Save them. Share them. She said we should make our memorial a proper one, to keep the memories of those we left from before the Calamity._

_So we did._  


* * *

Father wasn’t home very often. He spent most of his time working with the Mancers, though I didn’t really know that it was with the Mancers then. I know a lot more now than I did before. Anyway, he was gone a lot. Sometimes that made the times we were able to spend together that much nicer.

Sometimes, Father would take me to the fair. The last one he took me to was a winter fair, and there were colorful lanterns hanging from strings lit up and down the main streets of the Melting Pot, right there in the heart of the city. I remember the vendors selling hot bread, and hot cider, and mulled wine; I remember asking if we could get something, and he bought me a big apple tart, spiced with cinnamon and cloves. I remember walking side by side with him as the first snowflakes started to fall, and for a while I even felt happy. We didn’t stay at the festival long. Father had to go back to work, and I had to go back home. There was still a little bit of the tart left. I saved it so that when I woke up the next morning, I’d have a reminder of that happy memory. I ate it for breakfast the next day, alone.

After times like that, I’d go to Micia’s shrine. I felt like Her, sometimes, even if it was only a little bit. Lonely. I didn’t have much, and what little family I had left was already given away to Caelondia -- kind of like she had done with Her heart. I can’t imagine what Her life must be like, having to feel that for generation after generation, having to always see the ones She loved wander away from Her and then only return to Her in death. I can’t imagine it, but I can understand it, sometimes. Just a little bit.

Father never talked about home. His home, I mean. The Tazal Terminals. He didn’t talk about his work, either, or about my Mother, or the Pantheon, or really about much of anything that wasn’t in the here and now. That was okay, though. Instead, we’d talk about the stray squirt I’d found rooting around in the trash one alley over, and what the best way to catch it would be. How to tempt it to come home and stay with me. Just for a little while, you understand. Just while it was small. We didn’t have enough room for me and a full grown Gasfellow. I didn’t think he’d let me at first.

But he did.

Father didn’t smile much, but I liked it when he did. He had a gentle smile. He smiled when I first brought that little squirt home. I had to try for three days just to get it to trust me enough to follow me home. But as soon as it did, it scooted right over to Father and spun around his leg. I remember being so mad that it took me so long just to touch it while it took to Father right away, but looking back now, I think I know why.

It was more than just his smile. Father had a gentle heart, too. When he got mad, he would get very very angry. But that only lasted a short time. His temper wasn’t as bad as mine. And he didn’t get mad very often, and never without a good reason. Even at the end, he was mad at me only a short time, and for a very good reason. I just didn’t understand it then. It was because of him that I survived. He saved me. I wish I could tell him how much he meant to me. How much I loved him. That’s the only thing that I regret, not being able to go back just to say that.

As much as I would like to tell Father that, I know it’d be even more of a mistake to turn things back. He did what he had to do to save me. Even-

.

.

.

Father was a good man. I won’t forget him. Ever.  


* * *

Mum liked to bake. She was good at it, but it was hard work for her. She had her own kiosk and sold her bread there. She baked me meat pies to take to school. Some of the kids teased me about them, but Mum would just say that they were jealous because I got fresh meat pies and they didn’t. Sometimes she would even cook fresh tomatoes in them. Those were my favorites. It was hard to get tomatoes.

She knew how to save things, too. She didn’t save just anything like some people. She only saved useful things. Like an old coat that someone didn’t want anymore just because it had a worn elbow. Or a pail that had a big dent. I fixed that so I could use it to carry coal in for her. She knew how to sew and darn and made clothes for me and mended my socks when I wore holes in them. Mum used to say that homemade clothes lasted longer and I should be proud of them. She was right, but I didn’t find that out until I got to the Walls. Hard living is even harder on clothes, especially ones that aren’t made with lots of care.

Mum didn’t sing a lot. She wasn’t very good at it, but I still liked it when she did. She sang when I was really little. I still remember a couple of the songs. There was one about the bird in the tree who was king of the woods. There was another one about mountains and oceans and home, and how home is always in your heart if you keep it there. She said that one was really old, from before the city. She sang the song about the walls, too, but she stopped singing that one when I first told her that I was going to do what I needed to do to take care of her.

When I first went to the Rippling Walls, I got lots of letters from Mum. Not all of them made it. Sometimes she would talk about something she must’ve written in a letter that she never sent, or never wrote, or I never got from the post. She wrote really long letters. She talked about people back home. She told me how Maud would sometimes come over to visit her and play cards. She didn’t say that Maud was looking after her to make sure she was alright. But I could tell. She told me about Nordy, and how he set up a birdfeeder by her window, just for her. That was right nice of him. I never got to thank him.

Letters stopped after a few years. I thought Mum was just too tired to write. I didn’t guess what had really happened. No one told me, not Maud, not Nordy, not anyone else. Or maybe they did, and I just never got the message. I found out when I went back to the city. I left some flowers for her on her favorite bench. It was down on the wharf where you can look out over the ocean. She said she liked it because it smelled like freedom. It always smelled like salt and fish and birds to me.

Marshal Brody took me under his wing my first time out there. He said a kid my age didn’t have any business out on the wall, right up until I told him why I was there. He never said that again. He stopped treating me like a kid, too. Instead, he showed me a better way to swing my hammer. He showed me how to plant my feet right so I wouldn’t throw out my back. Later on, he taught me how to shoot his musket. I never forgot those lessons.

When I came back, he said he had a feeling I wouldn’t stay away. He always treated me with real respect. Like I was an equal. I worked as hard as I could for him. I respected him, too. He gave me interesting missions. Like scout out an area of the wilds. Track down a lost party. Figure out the best way through a pass. That sort of thing. He trusted me to get them done right. I got them done right for him. He always made sure that the cook left a bit of food in the pot whenever I was due back, just in case I got in early. Or late. He took care of me.

I never really knew my Da. Sometimes I thought Marshal Brody would’ve been a good Da. I never told him that, though. I think he knew anyway. He told me once that he never had any kids. I like to think that maybe he thought of me as his kid sometimes. Even if he stopped treating me like one.

He had to go back to the city during my last year out there. Being a Marshal was a hard life, and it had started to get to him. His last injury wasn’t healing right. Before he left, he told me, “You keep up what you’re doing, and one day you’ll be a Marshal, too. We’d be glad to have you. Real glad. You keep up what you’re doing, and one day you’ll be a legend. Just you wait and see.”

I kept up what I was doing, for him and for Mum. I never heard what happened to him after that. Don’t know if he went and retired in the city, or took off exploring the Wilds like he said he’d always want to do one day.

I kind of don’t want to know. I like the idea of him still wandering around out there better than thinking about him frozen in time all turned to ash. I like thinking about him going on all the adventures he wanted to do, but couldn’t, when he was in charge of things. I like to think that maybe we’ll even find him still wandering.

You never know, right?

Thanks, Mum. Thanks, Brody. Thanks, for everything you’ve done. I’m working hard. I won’t let my friends fall behind. I’m making the most of things even when they’re at their worst, just like you taught me.  


* * *

Song For My Beloved

Soft birdsong fills the air;  
And with their wings they roam.  
A hope, a dream, adrift--  
We carry on alone.

Your eyes,  
Your face,  
Your smile--  
So full of life and joy.  
My dear,  
Forgive me.  
I could not change...

Through the gardens we roam  
And watch leaves fall and drift.  
Never to be alone--  
Sweet laughter fills the air.

My hands clasped ‘round your own,  
My voice caught in my throat.  
You glowed beneath the stars  
So radiant.

I cannot forget--  
Those were tears of joy in your eyes.  
I cannot forgive--  
I did not bring you home that night.

My heart has gone to drift;  
I left me here alone.  
Sad lament fills the air.  
My soul forever roams.

Keeper, you did not protect her.  
Mason, you turned your back.  
Mother, she is returned to you.  
Duke, your folly’s mine...

Cast off and all alone,  
We float high through the air.  
Now whither shall we roam?  
A broken home adrift.

We cannot forget--  
The past’s come apart and undone.  
I cannot forgive--  
Myself, or them, or anyone.

Your eyes,  
Your face,  
Your smile--  
So full of life and joy.  
My dear,  
Forgive me.

I could not change...  


* * *

_I gotta admit… It’s hard for me to write anything, anything at all. Probably didn’t help any that I let everyone else go first, but even then… I’m still not sure who to write about. Who to remember. Sure, I could talk about my family, but they’ve been dead and gone so long it wouldn’t feel right. Not like this, anyway, nestled in the same pages as tributes to those taken by the Calamity. Not now. Not just yet._

_I could talk about one of my old sweethearts, but then again… there’s the same problem. It’s been a long time since I’ve been young. They’ve all moved on. I’ve moved on. And besides… I think Zulf’s said more’n enough for anyone who’s lost someone they’ve been head over heels in love with._

_The people I worked with? Sure… I suppose I can say a little something about some of them. But not too much. Not about everyone. Some things there are better left unsaid. Zia already captured the heart of the one who really mattered the most. Who am I to darken that bittersweet memory?_

_The Kid’s been eyeing me for a while now, almost like he’s figured out that I’d rather not add anything to what they’ve written. But that wouldn’t be fair to them. Or, I suppose, to me. I guess that leaves just one thing. And… now that I think about it… I can’t think of anyone else that I loved more, that I miss more because they’re not here with me now. I can’t think about anyone better to write about than the one that’s been staring me in the face all along._  


* * *

Beautiful Caelondia. The Shining City.

My home, my life, my love.

There’s a thousand and one songs written about Caelondia, but none of them could quite describe what she was really like, though they managed in bits and pieces for a glimpse here or there. I know that there’s no way I can do her justice, but I sure will try. Here’s what I remember:

The Wharf wasn’t my favorite district, but I know the kid had some fond memories of it having to do with his mother. Or memories, anyway. What I did like about that place was how busy it’d be. A man could lose himself in the crowds down by the docks, all the fishermen coming in from the sea to unload their catch each morning, their families meeting them to help sell to the highest bidder. You could get some mighty fine shellfish down there if you knew just who to ask. Old Man Caleb was always the captain I’d go to for scallops. He knew of some hidey hole that he kept a secret all to himself where he’d find the biggest, butteriest ones ever.

Now, the Melting Pot, there was a market that had it all. Most of it was too rich for my tastes, or my pockets, but every now and then I’d find something that really spoke to me. I got my best hammer from a blacksmith there, once. It’s the same one I’ve got with me now, just a bit worse for the wear. It’s not a proper Mason hammer, but it’s real close. And it fits my hand real nice. The place had all sorts of fancy shops, if you were into that, and slightly less fancy bars, if you were into that. I was into that. Doomshine Downtime was my favorite of the lot of them, tucked away over there on the east side where there were more distilleries than haberdasheries. They had a giant stuffed lunkhead up over the bar that they’d decorate with flowers each spring, like he was some sort of god who’d gone and lost his way from the Pantheon. Ol’ Lunky we used to call him. Rub him once for luck, twice for love.

If you rubbed him twice, you’d eventually end up at Sundown Path. I’m not ashamed to admit I took a walk or two there in my time, though things never quite seemed to work out in the end. It was always a nice enough place, though, and I’ve more good memories of it than I’d care to write down here. I guess I’m not as much of a romantic as I used to be. Maybe I left it back there, with all of its creeping flower trellises and painted cobblestone and brightly colored pavilions draped in rich fabrics.

Trigger Hill. Now that’s a place that brings back memories. Me and the boys would spend hours up there honing our skills, competing against one another for who was the best shot. The view was great, but it wasn’t often that we’d spend time to enjoy the scenery. Fitting new targets and trying out different courses of fire to test each other was always the game of the day, changing things up just enough so that we’d stay on our toes. You just never knew when that target might be packed with a bit of extra explosives or lob something right back at you. I can still smell the place, sulfur and gunpowder and dust mixed with that bit of untamed Wild always trying to creep in.

I suppose there’s no harm in talking about the Observatory, now that everything’s said and done and left to the past. I did most of my work there after my army days were over. Mancers saw something they liked in me. I suppose they were right, about some of that anyway. For a long time, I felt like I was doing something good. Something new. Something that we all could be proud of. But that’s not why I brought up the Observatory.

What I remember about that place was how much knowledge was there. There were libraries within libraries, every story you could ever have thought of, dreamed of, and then all the stories from other places, too. The Ura. The Motherland. Even beyond there. There was math, and history, and science. There were so many answers, and there were even more questions, questions that we all kept trying to answer ourselves. There was creativity. There was creation.

I never felt so happy in my life as when I had a pen in hand and a new invention to draft.

Even though I had my brothers in the Triggers years ago, the other Mancers were even more of a family to me. I can still see them now. Benjy, stooped over a table and lost in thought, white hair sticking out from under that hat of his in all directions. He used to think it’d look like he combed it if he just tucked it away. It never helped. Willam, his laughter deep and echoing all around us. He’d just told some joke that he’d thought of, thought it was the greatest thing in all the world. Lisbet, her handwriting the messiest I’d ever seen, but if you could read it you’d find she just made some of the most incredible leaps of intuition to solve just about any problem. Maffew, quiet and small like a mouse, but with a mind so sharp it’d cut you faster than any razor. Jace, the orator, who could keep a whole crowd on the edge of the seat just to find out where his new theory was headed. Jessie, who had a way with her steam engines that was more like magic than any science I’d ever known.

My friends, my family. They were good people. I’ll miss them all.

And, I hate to say it, but I’ll miss Caelondia more. She was as alive as any of the rest of them, full of laughter and tears, excitement and solitude. So many hopes and dreams, so many prayers. She was our heart, beating inside of each of us just like it did for Mother. Or maybe we were Caelondia’s heart, keeping her so alive for so long in spite of everything we put her through.

Either way, it’s been carved out now, and it’s up to us to find something else to fill that hole.

Looking around this place, I think we’ve made a pretty good start.


End file.
